A Taste of Italy
by Yamitron
Summary: Psychoshipping. Marik and Bakura go to an Italian restaurant. Rated for implications.


**[[A/N: **Psychoshipping. Don't like, don't read. That's Yami Marik and Yami Bakura. I nixed the "Yami"'s, because that takes too damn long to type and read. So deal with it. Based off of a Role Play. Little bits of the person who plays Bakura have been snuck in there; she should find them, no problem. I hope you enjoy, let me know if you would like a part two. I own nothing but the YM persona I've created. **]]**

Marik grimaced, looking at his reflection. He stuck a few fingers through locks of his hair, loosening the remnants of his week's activities. From out of it, he pulled wrappers from starbursts, straws of beverages he had long since drunk, clumps of hardened goo that he would not identify in civilized company, and bits of staling pancakes. Once his pile was formed on the counter, he ran a comb through the spiky hair, taming it, then fluffing it back up.

As he finished, he looked back at himself and grinned. It was one of those days in which he had decided to trade in his usual attire for something new, feeling out of the ordinary. He was dressed in a button up white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up sloppily to his elbows, buttons only done 3/4ths of the way, his chest partly exposed, and a black tie loosely draped around his neck. He had fought with the tie and decided to call it a draw, as it hung limp and tiredly around his chest. His pants were different from his usual tan cargos; instead donning a deep blue jeans, almost black, without holes, rips, or filth. Casual dress shoes and his thin reading glasses completed the ensemble, giving him an air of casual dressiness.

While he looked nice, he still was Marik, and therefore continually messed up his hair, absentmindedly running his hands through the spikes, and blowing the bangs out of his face as he studied himself, making sure there was nothing he had forgotten.

"Are you done in there yet, you idiot?" Bakura's voice drifted in through the locked door, as he pounded on it, getting Marik's attention.

"Quit your bitching, I'm finished." Marik replied with a chuckle, unlocking the door and throwing it open to face his irritator.

There Bakura faced him with a smirk on his face as always, and studied him. "Hm. I approve." He said, his ever-present smirk changing to a grin.

Marik sniggered and licked Bakura's cheek, conveying amusement and simultaneously moving him slightly out of the way so he could pass by.

Bakura wiped his face off, chuckling. "Your quirks. They're odd."

Marik grinned back at him, moving through the apartment they shared with Ryou, transitioning from bathroom to lounging room. He plopped down on the couch lazily, as if he were king of the world and the rest of humanity were lucky to bask in his existence. He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, silently yawning.

"... Are you already tired?" Bakura asked, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms. He leant against the doorpost from the room they shared, looking at him with an expression of mixed amusement and annoyance.

"I'm always sort of tired. Being this irresistible takes a lot of effort." Marik said, grinning, not opening his eyes.

"Egotist." Bakura sniggered, moving to sit down next to him.

Bakura himself was dressed nicer than usual as well. He had on his typical jeans (but unlike Marik, his were never not clean) and nice shoes. But his top instead was black with green pinstripes, a collared shirt, also rolled up to his elbows. His was clearly neater in appearance, not to say he cared greatly about his clothing, but he that unlike Marik, he could fight with his clothes and win. He also had a tie, green and tied with much more skill, tucked into a casual vest, buttoned with all three of its buttons at his midsection, with ornamental pockets. Completing the outfit was a fedora stripped the same as his shirt, tilted at an angle over his spiky hair.

He sat next to him, draping an arm over the back of the couch, putting up his feet.

Marik opened his eyes and turned to face Bakura, looking over his face, pausing to meet those eyes smirking back at him, and then moved to his outfit. He then looked back at himself, surveying the clothes that were still foreign to him, and chuckled.

"What?" Bakura asked him, his voice absent of his usual sarcastic and mocking tone.

"I just was thinking about how great we look. All the time. Clothing not a factor."

"This is news to you?"

"No, but just something to think about."

"Why did you have us wear these clothes, anyway? It feels odd wearing them; they're so out of character for us."

Marik grinned and scooted closer to Bakura, wrapping his arms around his waist and looking down at his outfit. "I thought it looked hot. I wanted to see how it looked on you. You make it look even better than I thought."

Bakura chuckled and wrapped his arms around Marik's upper body, leaning down slightly to kiss his neck. "Do I now?"

Marik tilted his head away from him, exposing his neck. "Mhnn. Almost makes me want to cancel going out tonight and drag you to the bedroom right now, instead."

"Wouldn't be dragging if I went willingly."

"True. Mm. ... I suppose there will be time for that when we return." Marik said with some disillusionment. Bakura laughed. "We should go now. Reservations and all that." Marik tilted his head back down to gently kiss him, lingering longer than he needed to. He pulled away after a few seconds and pulled himself away from Bakura, untangling their arms, and stood up, offering his hand to help Bakura stand. He grinned and took the hand he was offered, pulling on Marik for support as he stood and stretched a bit.

Marik walked to the table in the kitchen where he had lazily thrown his blazer earlier that day. He slung it on and ignored the flash of a camera he felt at his back, and grabbed his keys. Pocketing them, he turned to Bakura, beckoning him over and grinning. "No choice today. I'm driving." He said playfully, while making it clear there was no room for argument.

Bakura shook his head and sniggered. "I'm not quite sure why it is that I continue to get in a car with you. Even though I can't die, I fear for my life, you know that?"

Marik's grin widened. "But you also know it's fun. Come on, then. I'll bet you $10 we don't get stopped."

"And I'll bet you $20 that we will, and you'll have to kill the cop. Probably by running him over."

"You're on, BitterMuffin, now let's go."

20 minutes later, they walked into a restaurant, quickly being seated in a booth near the middle of the place, off to the side. Marik shrugged off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as they walked, throwing it in the booth, uncaringly. They slid into opposite sides, Bakura placing his hat in an empty stretch of table next to him. He ordered a red wine, and Marik requested a daiquiri from their waiter.

When the server left, Bakura smirked at Marik, who rolled his eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I owe you $30. You ass." He chuckled. "I was already planning on buying the dinner, so you'll have to think of something else for me to buy for you."

"I wasn't just smirking about that. Although that is pretty amusing to me."

"Then what did I do now?" Marik chuckled, reclining in the booth, putting his feet up on Bakura's bench, one on each side of his lap.

"You picked the restaurant. You wanted to go to this Italian place. Italy has the best wine I've ever had. And you ordered a Strawberry Daiquiri of all things?" Bakura smirked, mockingly.

"They didn't have Piña Coladas."

"You're insane. That's a really gay drink, too." Bakura chuckled.

"I'm here with my boyfriend on a date, you think I care if it's a gay drink?" Marik laughed.

"My point remains. This is a nice Italian restaurant; why were you so adamant on coming here? I didn't think you liked pasta."

"I don't. I come here for the ambience." Marik said, closing his eyes and humming along to the music, lazily running a finger through the flame of the candle on the table. "That and the pizza and ice cream here is amazing."

"Sometimes it's more clear than others that you're only 7."

Marik accentuated this point by sticking his tongue out at Bakura playfully and squeezing his hips with his feet. "Shut up, you old man."

As Bakura chuckled in response, their drinks were set down on the table. "Do you know what you would like to eat, sirs?" their waiter, Jeff, asked them.

Marik took a gulp of his drink, and both Jeff and Bakura looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"... I will go first then. I want Fettuccine Alfredo and garlic bread." Bakura said, voice full of boredom, running a finger along the edge of his wine glass.

Marik finished his drink in another large gulp, and turned to the waiter. "I want pizza with sausage. Lots of sausage. And another one of these." He said, grinning widely, and waving his now empty glass around.

Jeff raised an eyebrow and bit his lip to keep back a laugh as he scribbled down their orders, thanked them, and turned to deliver the order to the kitchen.

Once he left, Bakura slowly turned to look at Marik, who was by now scraping at the bottom of his empty glass, with a cherry sticking out of his teeth. Marik looked up at him and grinned, sucking the cherry into his mouth. Bakura laughed at him, shaking his head. "Why do I go out with you, you lunatic."

Marik shrugged, chewing on the cherry. He screwed up his face in concentration, and a few seconds later opened his mouth. He stuck out his tongue to show the cherry stem tied tightly in a knot. "That's why." He spat it out, grinning.

Bakura looked from Marik to the cherry stem, amusement coloring his face. "I didn't need a cherry stem to tell me you were a good kisser."

"Well you got one."

They laughed and talked until the food arrived; the topics ranging from Marik's poor disposal of the policeman to jokingly plotting to murder Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus and how to make it appear to be a murder suicide.

Some time through the conversing, Marik grabbed one of Bakura's hands, which were lying on the table, and held onto it, earning a few looks as some passed by their table, whether it be from the hand holding or the conversations themselves. Ignoring the passing people, they continued to talk animatedly, barely noticing when the food was placed in front of them.

The smell of sausage pizza wafted up to Marik's nose; once it registered in his mind what he was smelling, he stopped midsentence, looking down. His eyes widened and he grinned a grin that reminded Bakura of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. Marik set down his glasses, rolled up his sleeves some more, and attacked the meal before him, pulling off bits of sausage and eating them ravenously, as though he hadn't eaten in days as opposed to hours.

Bakura took a fork to his pasta and twirled it about the noodles, eating more sophisticatedly and with more care not to get anything on his person.

"Don't eat too much, I don't want you sluggish and tired." Marik said, looking at Bakura, pizza sauce flecking his face.

"Yes, you'd much rather me be energetic and oppressive instead of tired and more easily swayed." He responded, not looking up from his dish.

"If I can get more out of you with the former, however lack of dignity there is for me in it, I'll take it. Besides, the fight is more fun."

"I'll agree with that." Bakura smirked.

Marik hummed and wiped his face on his exposed and bare forearm. "Want a slice of this? There's one with the meat still on it."

"There's still some on your plate? By the look of you, most of it is on your clothes, hair, face..." he teased, nodding and extending a hand.

Marik grinned and handed him the last piece he had, then pushing the plate away from himself. He looked to the candle next to him and placed it in front of himself, deciding to be occupied with playing with the flame. Bakura chewed the pizza slice, watching him and the reflection the fire made in his lavender eyes.

Marik glided his fingers through the flame, lingering long enough to get a soft dull burning pain in his fingertips that would fade once they were taken away from the heat. Fascinated, he focused his full attention on the fire. He would pinch the colors, almost as though he wanted to steal them away and keep them for himself, his secret treasure. But again and again it would slip out of his grasp, licking his fingertips in irritation. Not being deterred, he stared at the blue deep within it, and held it tightly. The flame was angered and bit him, burning his fingers. Marik hissed and drew his hand back.

He looked at his injured fingers with interest, running his uninjured thumb over the shiny skin, enjoying the shocks of pain it sent through his body.

The spell broken, Marik grinned and looked back up to Bakura, who had been watching him the entire time. "Masochist. Pyro. Psycho." Bakura eventually said, laughing at him.

Marik grinned sheepishly, blowing out the candle and pushing it too away.

The waiter soon returned to collect Marik's empty plate and Bakura's half finished pasta, asking if they would like any dessert. Marik sniggered. "You know, I wanted an ice cream when I got here, but on that note, I'm suddenly anxious to go home. Y'alright with that?" He asked Bakura, who nodded. "Then bring me the cheque, now." He said, reclining, and dismissing the waiter with a wave of his hand.

Marik's legs, still propped up on Bakura's bench, rubbed against his hip, as he replaced his glasses, grinning and meeting his eyes, a seductive hue burning behind his normal expression. Bakura shivered slightly, smirking back at him with half lidded eyes, that same spark behind his eyes.

The cheque came and Marik quickly reached into his wallet, slapping down the money in cash on the table, tip and all. He gathered up his jacket, not even bothering to put it on, and walked quickly to Bakura's side, offering his hand. He all but pulled him out of the booth, Bakura grabbing and replacing his hat swiftly, sniggering as he was led out to Marik's car.

Marik wrenched open his door, yanking his keys from his pocket. Bakura got into the car and laughed at Marik's urgency. "You got in the mood quickly. Not that I'm complaining but-" He was cut off by Marik's leaning into the car and forcing his lips quickly onto his.

"Shut up."

He sniggered and stopped talking, buckling himself in as Marik started up the car. His CD came on, track one beginning slowly with its musical tune they knew so well by now. They both looked at it and laughed, speeding out of the parking lot, taking it as a sign. Their windows were rolled down and they stuck their heads out the window (Bakura holding onto his hat), singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs. "She moves through moonbeams slowly..." *

They arrived at their apartment quickly, shutting the door hastily behind them. Marik reached forward and grabbed Bakura by the tie, using it to pull him close for a kiss, needy desperation seeping through his lips, clouding his sense of logic. They were at the doorway instead of the logical bedroom, but neither seemed to register this.

They kissed and ground and groped against the door for long minutes before realizing they needed a different location. Jacket, hat, and vest were thrown about the lounging room as they slowly progressed to the correct place. Tongues twirled harshly and caressed softly, necks bitten and soft moans echoed. Reaching their room, the ties were removed and collected, slung over Bakura's arm, and each of their shirts was slowly unbuttoned by the other. Lusty smirks were exchanged, and a quick, chaste kiss given before Marik strode to the bedroom, hopping on the bed, grinning as Bakura grabbed their canvas bag filled with knives, handcuffs, and now ties. He smirked and shut the door.

**[[ A/N: *** "She moves through moonbeams slowly..." That is the beginning of the chorus of Love Me Dead by Ludo; a song I have deemed is their song. XD **]]**


End file.
